5 Times James Kirk Almost Died And One He Didn't
by Angel Baby1
Summary: You can take the daredevil out of Iowa, but you can't ever take the driving-off-cliffs out of James T. Kirk, as the unfortunate crew of the Enterprise soon learns.
1. Act 1

AN: Well I'm freaking terrified. Oh, I mean…hi everyone! I'm one of the new edition Star Trek fangirls who only showed up after the movie came out and then cut her teeth on fanfics for a while before watching some TOS episodes. I'm pretty sure some of the jargon is wrong. Please feel free to correct! …Y'know, politely.

Anyway, here it is: A train wreck in 6 acts. I like picking on Kirk. He's oodles of noodles of fun and will jump off drills for people he presumably only met in passing a few minutes ago. That's established; it's canon. He actually did it. Still, I'm TAKING SOME LIBERTIES here, as I will continue to do throughout the course of this story. Because I don't really understand how Starships work or how they malfunction or the nitty-gritty details of the bridge crew's division of labor. (Who calls where for what reason?) I took four books out of the library to try and get a better grasp on it, but no, I'm still floundering and making stuff up. So! It's fully written, and it should be posted in its completion in no time. Unless I get the shit flamed out of me, in which case I'll probably run off and hide somewhere, weeping inconsolably.

Okay enough procrastinating: On with the show!

Act 1

In which the Captain's Priorities are Established as Different

Than Pretty Much Everyone Else's

The situation was only about half way under control when James Kirk strode onto the bridge of his ship. "Report," he demanded, taking his seat with the calm confidence of a king holding court.

"The damage seems to be limited to the area directly around the affected generator, sir," Chekov said obediently, fingers dancing over his terminal. "It appears as though it was a malfunction caused by—"

"Assume I was there," Kirk suggested, leaning his weight on his left arm where it was propped on the chair.

Chekov swiveled to face his captain, surprise obvious on his face. "Sir?"

"Here's what I want to know," Jim explained brusquely, his own expression almost disturbingly blank. "What are the expected effects of the loss of the generator? How soon will it be functional, assuming it can be repaired? What is the total number of injured, and is Dr. McCoy equipped to deal with them or will he require additional help?"

Chekov stared for only a moment before turning quickly to scan the data available to him. "Loss of the generator takes us down to ninety percent of available power, enough to keep us going at present cruise but not enough to make the jump to warp speed. Mr. Scott reports sufficient supplies to fix the damage, plotting the work-order at an estimated three-day repair cycle, but he also submitted a request to replace the generator at the next starbase. As for the injured, Captain, our connection with sickbay seems to have been disrupted in the explosion. We aren't receiving any reports from Dr. McCoy."

"Adjust course to compensate for the lack of warp speed, Mr. Sulu," the captain ordered. "Lieutenant Uhura, communicate our delay to Starfleet. Submit a request to have all generators of a similar make and model currently in use throughout the fleet inspected for a manufacturing malfunction. We don't need any of these things exploding in the middle of battle. When that's done, focus your attention on the break in communication between this bridge and the sickbay. If there's an emergency going on down there, I want to know about it. Mr. Chekov, locate and plot a course for the nearest starbase."

"Aye sir," three voices chorused.

Spock studied his captain carefully, unable to shake the feeling that something here was very wrong.

* * *

Bones, meanwhile, was up to his elbows in whining Starfleet engineers. "It's just a scratch, man, stop complaining! I need more disinfectant over here," he called to his assistant, shoving his latest patient aside to make room for the next. "And wherever Captain Kirk is, get him prepped, because his number's nearly up."

Nurse Chapel bustled to his side, offering a tray of assorted medical supplies and a befuddled expression. "What do you mean, Doctor?"

McCoy frowned, selecting a numbing self-adhesive to close the wound—after dousing the engineer's gash with a particularly stinging multipurpose cleanser. "What do you mean, _what do I mean?"_

Chapel hesitated, unsure how to respond. She glanced around briefly, as though the answer would materialize if she delayed long enough.

"_Well?" _Bones prompted as he gauged another injury. (Three cracked fingers and a mild burn. Take this pill and report for duty.)

"Um, I'm…" She drew back slightly as a terrible thought (and its terrible consequence) occurred to her. "Dr. McCoy," she whispered nervously, "he can't be…prepped, sir. Captain Kirk isn't here."

McCoy froze mid-stitch, turning very deliberately to face his favorite assistant. "What do you mean," he said, so soft and deadly that all movement in the busy sickbay instantly froze, "by _Captain Kirk isn't here?"_

* * *

Spock didn't like the way his captain was sitting. Months of serving together had given the Vulcan plenty of time to familiarize himself with James Kirk's habits (such as they were, with him being a startlingly unpredictable man), and he didn't tend to lean on his left arm. Kirk was right-handed, after all, and subconsciously relied on the strength of the dominant limb.

Why, then, was he leaning so heavily on his left arm now?

Other than that anomaly, the young captain performed his duty with admirable strength and serenity. He made decisions and gave orders as though the disaster of a generator exploding on a ship operating at full capacity was a trifling matter easily rectified. He showed neither anxiety at the situation nor pride in his own ability to handle it. Not even the cant of his head or the set of his shoulders betrayed underlying stress. He seemed, for all intents and purposes, perfectly calm, utterly in control.

"We're back online with sickbay, Captain," Uhura announced eventually. "They're reporting only six-percent capacity. No fatalities, no high risk patients, no requests for additional personnel or aid. They seem to be fine."

The only sign that Kirk even heard the good news was the exhausted manner in which he lowered his forehead to his left hand, still propped on the arm of his chair. "Good," he murmured. "Well done, everyone."

His officers traded uncertain glances, filled with confusion and the barest traces of concern. Perhaps the captain had been stressed after all?

The doors to the bridge swept open with a sudden and unexpected hiss of displaced air. "Damn it, Jim!" Dr. McCoy growled, hustling to Kirk's side. The officers of the bridge startled when Bones knelt by the captain's chair, reaching up to grip both shoulders in firm, gentle hands. "Jim," he called, low and soothing but filled with unspoken demand.

Kirk roused slightly, turning his head with drunken sluggishness as blue eyes drifted to the doctor's face. His mouth ticked in a lopsided smile. "'lo, Bones. Is everyone taken care of?"

"Everyone but you, you giant idiot." He shook the captain's shoulders, still with that odd gentility, and pulled back just enough run his eyes over Jim's torso. "Where are you hurt?"

The bridge startled again, all the officers recalling Kirk's cryptic suggestion: _Assume I was there. _But everyone on-site for the explosion had immediately reported to sickbay to be assessed for injuries. Or at least theywere _supposed _to, per Federation safety protocol.

Spock abandoned his post, crouching opposite the doctor to flank Kirk's other side. Just in time, too: Jim listed violently, tumbling out of his seat into the waiting, if surprised, arms of his first officer. Then the blood soaking the back of his uniform from shirt to trousers was finally visible, matching exactly the pool in his seat, and the situation began to make a horrible kind of Kirkian sense.

He'd been present for the explosion. Despite his own grievous injuries, he'd made his way directly to the bridge, driven by the need to insure his ship's and crew's safety. That was kind of status quo behavior for James Kirk. As long as he could protect his people, he didn't much seem to mind sacrificing himself. Why hadn't they guessed? How had no one noticed that he was bleeding out in front of them?

"The crew?" Jim breathed in question, forehead tucked into the curve of Spock's shoulder, some of his coherence fracturing with pain and blood loss.

"They are functional," the first officer replied, shifting his captain so Bones could get a better look at the source of so much blood.

"And…_Enterprise?" _

Spock shifted his hold again almost restlessly. Something about Jim's fixation on everything but his own injuries was kind of… "All is well but for _you, _Captain."

"Good," Jim said, finally going lax in Spock's firm hold.

Frustrating. So much so that Spock got close to a frown, but he was practiced enough in the ways of his people to put the emotion aside as an illogical response to the situation. He focused his attention on Dr. McCoy, waiting for orders.

The wound had been caused by a small piece of shrapnel, probably about the side of an old medium caliber round, that had pierced the lower left side of Kirk's back, just below his lung. Bones prodded the area carefully, trying to assess unseen trauma. "It doesn't feel as though he's compromised his kidney," the doctor muttered, more to himself than Spock or any of the other officers. "But I'll need to do some scans, and soon. Anything could be happening in there." He eyed the Vulcan first officer warily, not wanting to rely on the help of someone who'd once marooned Jim on a frozen wasteland but facing the problem of there not really being anyone else equal to the task. "…Can you carry him?"

Spock was already standing, Jim gathered carefully in his arms. "Lead the way, Doctor. Mr. Sulu," he added belatedly, "take the conn."

"Is he gonna be okay?" Sulu asked, popping out of his seat to trail nervously behind the bloody parade.

Bones glared back at him. "Didn't I just say I need to do a scan?" When the officer visibly wilted, McCoy sighed, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling. "Look," he said, "I'll comm the bridge as soon as I know something, but right now I don't have the time to hold anyone's hand but Jim's. So you all do your part for the ship while the captain's out, and I'll do my part to put him back together so you can all yell at him for this later. Okay?"

He was gone before Sulu could reply, barking orders to sickbay as he rushed with Spock and Kirk to the lower decks of the ship. Hours later, after what would be termed at the Academy as "touch-and-go" surgery, he sent Spock back to the bridge with highly edited tales of well-being. The captain was up and about within the week, resuming most of his duties and seeming no worse for wear, other than the sporadic and unending lectures he received from…pretty much everyone. Even _Spock _scolded him, in his vague and modulated way, though Kirk thought he detected an undercurrent of "I'm serving under a moron who lacks the self preservation instincts of a lemming" hidden somewhere in his eyebrows.

"No harm, no foul," Kirk repeated, over and over, to every crewmember who cornered him. "The ship's still running and everyone's okay now. So stop with the lectures already. I mean, it could have been a lot worse. We could have actually _lost _the generator or something."

It was the first glimmer the crew of the Enterprise had ever gotten to indicate their captain's nearly manic need to care for those under his command, the first hint to the depth of his disregard for his own safety. And it made them all just a little nervous.


	2. Act 2

AN: Well holy cow! You guys are overwhelmingly supportive of new people, aren't you? I'm so happy Act 1 got such a warm reception! Hopefully the remaining five acts (including this one) will as well. My twin sister flopped on the ground and whined until I promised I'd post this part tonight, because it's her favorite. I'm a little partial to it myself, but that's mostly because Kirk gets to be seen as Super Cool and Awesome. Which is, of course, total win. (Kind of like Bones, who is also total win.) Still, this one could definitely go either way. I hope it gets the same "GRAAAH AWESOME!" response as the first one, but I suppose we'll see.

I am again Taking Liberties by messing with some details that haven't been established in the Reboot continuum. Also I'm messing with the English language, but only once, and it isn't anything that hasn't been done before. So… Fair game!

Yeah, and you can read whatever you want into the Kirk/Spock interactions. Go nuts.

Act 2

In Which the Captain is Laid Low

By a Bug

It started innocuously, which, in ironic hindsight, should actually have been a clue. Kirk was distracted. At first, it was small and easy to miss. Instead of ending a conversation with a pithy comment, Jim would just nod and walk away, thinking of something else. But he _was_ a Starfleet captain, after all, and they usually had something else on their minds. The distraction manifested on the bridge in the form of long, nearly silent shifts spend under Kirk's watch as he sat in his chair and stared at nothing, which was creepy but not altogether unappreciated. He sometimes missed a meal or break, but it still didn't seem like much of a problem.

It took less than two days for the constant distraction to present itself as a concern. Kirk began to wander away in the middle of conversations, muttering to himself with a faint frown line marring the smooth skin of his forehead. He fiddled with his food but never ate, at least not in the presence of his crew. His fingers twitched. His too blue eyes darted around, following something no one else could see.

"The captain has gone insane," Chekov said mournfully when Kirk finally didn't show up for his shift at all.

Uhura rolled her eyes. "He isn't _insane. _He's just…something. We'll have Dr. McCoy check him over," she decided, comming sickbay.

"McCoy here," the doctor answered. "What's wrong?"

"Probably nothing," Uhura assured him. "Captain hasn't arrived for his shift yet, and we were just checking to see if he's with you."

There was a long and accusatory pause. "Alright," Bones demanded, "what haven't you been telling me and how long haven't you been telling me about it?"

"Dr. McCoy, this is Spock," the first officer interjected. "We have no reason to believe the cause is medical, but the captain has been distracted of late."

"Distracted how?"

"Forgetting to eat," Sulu said, ticking points off on his fingers, "walking away in the middle of conversations, muttering to himself—"

"Mr. Spock," McCoy interrupted with the brevity of a doctor preparing for war, "the captain's signal is confined to his quarters. Meet me there immediately." His next admission came through clenched teeth, each word dragged from him with great, grudging reluctance. "I _might_ need your…assistance. Everyone else, I'll keep you posted."

Spock turned the conn over to Sulu before striding purposefully to Kirk's quarters. Bones met him there a moment later, taking a deep breath before punching the emergency access code. Whatever Spock had been expecting, it wasn't what he saw. From Bones' muttered curses, though, it was _exactly _what the doctor had expected.

Jim stood with his back to the door, studying a dizzying hodgepodge of words, symbols and equations drawn all over the far wall. Spock couldn't guess what it was supposed to mean and didn't waste time puzzling through the odd cipher. Instead, he kept close on McCoy's heels as the doctor approached Jim as carefully as a handler approached a spooked and dangerous animal.

"Jim," he called softly. "Jim, it's Bones. Can you talk to me for a second?"

Kirk half turned, but only for a moment. His eyes never drifted from the mess on his wall. "It's here, Bones, it has to be. I know it. If I can just study it long enough, I'm sure I'll…" He faded off vaguely, gnawing a thumbnail.

"Captain," Spock said, out of his depth but willing to play along, "perhaps if you explain your problem, I can be of assistance in solving it."

Jim made an absent motion of dismissal but didn't reply.

"That's a hilarious suggestion," McCoy muttered dryly, "coming from _you."_ Which made no sense, but that seemed to be the way the whole confrontation was headed, so Spock let it pass without comment. "Jim," the doctor said firmly, "tell me what you're seeing."

Spock shot McCoy a thoughtful glance. _Was _the captain insane?

"I've come up with a few more reactions, but I can't… Well, how is it any different?" he demanded, shoulders tense. "It's all the same reasoning, so I thought maybe if I looked at it from— But no, that's the same too."

McCoy lifted a tricorder slowly, aiming it at Kirk's back. The readings made him curse, fluidly and in several languages. "Damn it, Jim," he murmured heavily. "We should have _noticed_."

"What is it?" Spock asked quietly. When the doctor showed him the readings, he felt a slight shiver of pure shock. "Are those accurate?"

"Yeah." McCoy lowered the device, sighing and rubbing his forehead. "Funny how he has to move right into _high grade fever_ before his behavior starts to strike us as odd."

There were rebuttals that could be made, but none of them rang true in the face of Captain Kirk's obvious distress. "So it is the fever that has caused him to hallucinate?"

"He isn't so much hallucinating as fixating really, really intently on a problem." Bones motioned to the bizarre drawings as Kirk darted forward to add a few more. "He's calculating. Or planning, or preparing. Who knows? Right now we have to immobilize him so I can get the fever down and replenish his fluids. He probably hasn't been eating well lately, either, and I'll have to address that too."

"What are your suggestions for immobilization?"

McCoy made a frustrated sound. "I don't know, Spock. I'm a doctor, not a combat tactician. It would probably be better if we avoid tranquilizing him, though. I don't want to introduce anything foreign to his system until I can confirm a diagnosis."

Spock turned the problem over in his mind, looking at it logically. To subdue the captain, they would have to make him part with his…calculations. The best way to accomplish that was to try and engage him in conversation, though he seemed reluctant or unable to be distracted from his goal. Perhaps a more direct approach than an offer to simply talk it out? "Captain," Spock began, moving forward until he stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Jim, observing his colorful expression of madness. "I find it difficult to understand the conclusions you have drawn. If I am to assist you as your first officer, I must be privy to your thought process." He glanced sidelong at Jim, noting the troubled expression blooming on his face. "Perhaps if you explained in a simpler manner?"

Now Jim frowned, motioning jerkily at the wall. "I'm not sure how much clearer I can make it for you, Mr. Spock. The issue at hand is obvious."

"I am…unfamiliar with this cipher."

Under normal circumstances, such an admission would probably prompt a smirk and wiseass comment. This time, Jim only shook his head vaguely, not in denial so much as confusion as the fever took his thoughts from him. "Well, uh…I'm not sure how to help you with that."

Bingo, as the humans said. "If it does not seem too bold," the Vulcan suggested blandly, "you could teach it to me through a mind meld."

Kirk frowned at him. "Don't be ridiculous, Spock, I don't know how to mind meld. What do you take me for?"

Bones groaned in the background, but Spock maintained his well-taught calm. "Perhaps then, Captain, _I_ might initialize the meld. For the sake of your plan," he added when Kirk opened his mouth.

Jim frowned thoughtfully. "My plan?"

"Yes, Captain. To use a Vulcan mind meld to communicate your cipher so that I might help with your calculations."

"Oh." Jim nodded. "That plan. Yeah, sure, that sounds great. More like something that isn't less than what I've already planned, anyway."

Neither of the coherent parties in the roomed paused to pick apart the non-logic. Instead, Spock reached up, slowly and carefully, to spread the fingers of his right hand over the blazing skin of Jim's psi-points. Dizzying, disjointed thoughts flooded his mind, so illogical that for a moment they through off even the Vulcan's equilibrium. His free hand gripped Jim's too warm shoulder to anchor his physical self. When Spock looked at the nonsense scribbled on the wall through Jim's perception, it all fell into place. They _were _calculations, written in a Creole of logic puzzles and equations underpinned by a slew of languages, dozens of jarringly different conclusions to a question Spock didn't understand.

His lack of comprehension stirred an ember of frustration in Jim's mind. The captain tried, in a vague, halfhearted sort of way, to pull out of the meld. So Spock surfaced just enough to lead them both to the nearest flat surface (Jim's bed, as a matter of fact) and settled them there quite firmly. With his captain sheltered close by his side, Spock pressed deeper into Jim's mind, determined to understand, to soothe and anchor beyond the reach of even fever.

Jim's fever-riddled mind was nothing like he'd expected. Quicksilver thoughts swarmed like fireflies, uncoordinated and easily scattered, brushing against Spock's consciousness with startling heat. Spock calmed the frenzy, urging Jim's mind to a low buzz of restless distraction. Outside, somewhere distant and unimportant, he felt McCoy rearrange their pliant bodies, folding Jim against the Vulcan to protect the gentle press of Spock's fingers. McCoy commed his sickbay, requesting supplies and reinforcements as he turned Kirk's quarters into a hastily fashioned quarantine.

Jim's mind spiked and surged in the absence of Spock's full attention. The Vulcan quickly redirected his thoughts, moving carefully toward the knot of tension and ingenuity that represented whatever odd obsession held Jim's muddled concern. What he found hidden in the darkest core of James Kirk's mind startled Spock badly, rattling his consciousness with disbelief bordering on horrified awe.

He was standing with his father on the deck of the USS _Kelvin _during his twelve-minute command, watching the scene unfold to the ultimate conclusion of death. "Stop," Jim would say periodically, freezing the scene. "Go back." The tableau obeyed his command, zipping in reverse until Jim was satisfied. Then he would tweak reality, moving this person or altering that command, and let the picture resume. Always it ended in George Kirk's death. Always. So, "Stop," Jim would say. "Go back." A thousand different changes, a hundred different choices. "Stop. Go back."

Spock touched the scene, trying to determine how long his captain had tortured himself with the fate of his long-dead father, and could find no conscious beginning. Kirk had always known why his father wasn't around, had taught himself to read on the reports and stories written about it. He'd been fighting the _Kobayashi Maru_ program since the day of his birth, analyzing his father's choices, proud of the captain he'd been but frustrated by the loss their family had to suffer. What else could he have done? With more time or resources or planning, what might he have done differently? Done _better_? To this mind, fevered or no, there was no such thing as a no-win scenario.

_If I cannot change the outcome, let me change the world._

_"Stop. Go back."_

It humbled Spock and shamed him in equal measure. Jim's actions made more sense now, in that terrible Kirkian way most of his actions seemed to do eventually. What had he been thinking, bringing this man of all people up on academic charges? _Kobayashi Maru_ was his lifeblood. He had done nothing to the program he didn't do to himself.

"Stop. Go back."

(And his first thought, upon realizing the program's designed intent, had not been, _No fair. _It had been, _They're teaching a bunch of green academy students to be __**defeatable.**__ Someone out there is stupid._)

Far away, Kirk's body shifted, restless and so hot.

"Can't you get him to stay still?" Bones asked, frustrated as he ran scan after scan with no results.

The best way to get Jim to still was to calm his mind, which would not be possible if he continued poking at his internal doomsday scenario. Spock searched his captain's mind briefly, soothing as he went, trying to locate something from his past that might show him the best way to pacify an agitated Jim Kirk. He found it in the form of a memory.

Jim, barely six and torn with fever, scribbled on the walls of his room, trying to find the ultimate answer to _why. _(Why is Dad gone? Why does Mom have to suffer so much? Why can't I figure out what Dad could have done differently to keep us from ending up like this?) His mother eventually found him there, increasingly desperate in his calculations, and called to him with the light, pure notes of an old song written in a language lost to time. She sat in the doorway to his room, waiting until her young son stopped his furious scribbling and turned his face up to the sound of her singing, eyes half-lidded and distant. The marker fell from his fingers. She gathered him close to her breast, cradling him until the doctor arrived.

So music, and his mother, could calm his fevered mind. Unfortunately, his mother was somewhat unavailable, and Spock didn't think Dr. McCoy was in a position to provide them with songs. But there was music in Jim, hidden in every corner of his subconscious. So Spock tapped into the most soothing melodies available, going so far as to supply his own whenever Kirk drifted from his mental embrace. Eventually, the scene of his father's death faded to barely background noise, ever-present but momentarily forgettable. Jim turned to Spock's presence in his mind, lifting his attention to the gentle songs woven around him. His firefly thoughts stilled, clustering harmlessly in Spock's hold.

Within the hour, McCoy had a diagnosis. "It's a variant of Dengue fever," he said with an unhappy frown. "Apparently, he got it when he was a little kid, and it's one of those strains that just crops up every now and then. He should have been inoculated, of course, but… Well, I guess his mom wasn't the best at keeping up with shots." He sighed, rubbing his forehead.

Spock sat up against the headboard of Jim's bed, waiting passively for the bad news still to come. Jim was curled next to him on the bed, stretched along his side. The Vulcan kept his fingers close to the psi-points, knowing the fever would spike again without knowing when. If Jim so much as twitched, Spock would drop back into his mind with a blanket of calming thoughts and peaceful melodies.

"It's going to take at least a day to synthesize his medicine," Bones admitted reluctantly. "Until then, we'll need to keep him hydrated and calm. Unfortunately, his response to new medication can be…intense. We'll have to be aggressive if he develops an allergic reaction, which is tricky with a fully sedated patient. I hate to ask it, but—"

Jim shifted with a frown and a slight groan, thoughtlessly pressing his face into Spock's side. Spock responded by spreading his long fingers along the psi-points, soothing the restless _what ifs_ that plagued a troublingly brilliant and agile mind. "I will stay with the captain," the Vulcan murmured. "It is only logical, after all, that we do whatever we must to preserve his health."

Bones shook his head ruefully. "Especially since he won't do anything about it on his own."

"Indeed," Spock agreed dryly. The fever began to build again, so he turned his attention back to Jim, dropping easily into the turmoil of his mind. McCoy left without another word.

* * *

Days later, Jim came back into consciousness with a groan and a cough. He looked around his room blearily, trying to understand. "What happened?" he asked, voice hoarse.

Bones helped him with a glass of water, mouth pressed into a thin, unhappy line. Other than Spock, he was the only one in the room. "You've been sick, Jim," the doctor informed him. "Very sick. You're still in recovery for the next three days or so." He settled a glare on his befuddled captain, putting the glass on a bedside table. "Thanks a lot for not letting anyone know when you were starting to feel poorly, by the way."

Jim lifted his hands in weak objection. "I didn't realize I _was _feeling poorly."

"So you didn't notice the muscle and joint pain, or a spitting headache, or lack of appetite bordering on nausea?"

"...No?"

McCoy jabbed a furious finger at Kirk, anger bubbling to the surface. "You were running a fever that could have _killed _you, Jim!" he scolded. "It would have, if we'd been even a day later realizing how sick you were! You can't keep _neglecting _yourself like this, or one of these days you're going to get yourself killed! The fever was so bad," he snarled, "you were _hallucinating._ You drew all over your wall! It took hours to get it clean again!"

"Oh." Jim thought about that, considering the days he was missing in his mental calendar. Nearly a week now with only vague impressions, none of which made any sense. (Spock again, close in his thoughts, brushing his mind with such a gentle touch, but not the same Spock as before, and not for the same reason. And wasn't _that _just crazy?) Anything could have happened in those days, but it would have to have been spectacular to explain the first officer's placid presence at his sickbed. "Well," he asked with a lopsided smile, "did I at least say something funny? Y'know, during the hallucinations?"

Spock's hands curled into fists without his knowledge as McCoy sputtered in wordless outrage.

_Stop. Go back._

"No, Jim," the Vulcan said, keeping his voice low to compensate for the emotion he could not fully suppress. Those too blue eye swung to him, weary and already drifting closed again.

"No?" he echoed around a yawn.

_If I cannot change the outcome…_

"Nothing you said was funny."

_Let me change the world._


	3. Act 3

AN: …I feel as though I've rather shot myself in the foot with that last act. I mean, yeah, good times, but now the bar's, like…high. With lofty…art… Anyway, all that introspection and character growth? Incidental. This story is about beating the shit out of our dear captain with only the vaguest veneer of "Of course there's a plot in there somewhere! …See, it's plotty! There's…characters doing stuff!" Some of these scenarios are down-right ridiculous, as evidenced by Act 3. Really, the sheer ridiculousness just makes me feel as though I'm upholding the proud Star Trek: TOS-meets-fangirls tradition of "AND THEN KIRK WAS INJURED!"

So for this act, remember: There's characters doing stuff and Kirk is injured. Before the show even starts, he's injured. They're injuring him right now as we…communicate…

Act 3

In Which the Crew of the _Enterprise _and a Cult

Have a Misunderstanding

"Chekov to Enterprise."

"Enterprise here. Go on, Mr. Chekov."

"I can't find Captain Kirk."

"…Please repeat last transmission?"

"I can't find the captain. He was right here; I don't know where he could have gone." Chekov glanced around the bazaar nervously, trying to guess how much trouble he was in. His orders to keep both eyes on Kirk at all times no matter what had been pretty clear, after all. "If you trace his signal and tell me where it is, I will go get him. It will take no time at all."

"Stand by for transport."

Chekov startled. "I do not think it would be wise to remove me from—"

The light of two transporter beams fizzled on either side of him, collating into the forms of Mr. Spock and a furious Dr. McCoy.

"You said you could watch him," the doctor hissed, vibrating with rage. "You said it would be easy!"

Chekov flinched away, lifting both hands in supplication. "I did not anticipate his vanishing!"

"This is James _Kirk!_ Of _course _he vanishes!"

"Dr. McCoy," Spock interrupted placidly, his attention on the scanner in his hand beeping faintly as it search for the captain's frequency, "perhaps now is not the best time to scold Mr. Chekov. Our mission is to locate and retrieve Captain Kirk, a mission that becomes exponentially more difficult as time passes." He lifted dark eyes to McCoy's. "Our priority _must _be the captain."

Bones shot Chekov one more glare before relenting. "Alright. Where's the last place you saw him?"

* * *

"—and rejoice, my followers! For soon the Great One will be satisfied in our—"

McCoy, Spock, and Chekov huddled together behind an outcropping of rocks, eavesdropping on the maniac who had kidnapped their captain. All three had their phasers out, set to stun, and were waiting for even the smallest of openings to launch their assault. It would have been better if they could establish contact with the _Enterprise _first, but the cave in which they hid was made a of a geothermal material that blocked their transmissions. Naturally.

"—started in an offering of pain, but only the blood and heart of _this_ worthy sacrifice—"

"Let me see if I'm understanding this situation," Bones muttered to Spock, adjusting his grip on the phaser. "They kidnapped Jim to sacrifice him to appease their god."

"Correct, Doctor."

"And they don't know who he is, much less that he's a Starfleet officer, the captain of the newest flagship."

"Nor do they seem to care."

"It's not political."

"It would not seem so."

"Jim just happened to be there, with blue eyes, when they needed a blue eyed sacrifice."

"Indeed."

"Damn it, Jim," McCoy snarled, thumb twitching with the desire to shift the phaser to a setting far higher than _stun. _"After all the effort I've put in to keeping that man alive, he is not_ allowed _to be sacrificed to a random pagan god. Or _any _gods, for that matter."

Spock twisted to peer around the rocks again, calculating odds. "I quite agree, Dr. McCoy." Thirteen followers, all surrounding the altar of stone upon which Jim Kirk was tied. The leader stood over Kirk, both arms lifted, a bloody dagger in his right hand. None of them appeared to be armed, but the proximity of that dagger to Jim was…disquieting. The last thing anyone needed was for Jim to be fatally wounded in the chaos of a rescue attempt.

Assuming he was still alive. He had been utterly still on that altar since their arrival, which did not bode well. It was a possibility barely worth considering, so Spock put it from his mind, setting it aside as illogical. After all they'd been through together in their year aboard the _Enterprise, _James Kirk would never fall to some psychotic world-dweller.

"And now, my followers!" the madman cried, dagger gripped in both hands. "It _begins!"_

Spock stood from his hiding place and lifted his phaser in a single fluid motion. He stunned the leader and his attendants in rapid-fire succession, one-two-three, felling them before they realized he was there. McCoy and Chekov flanked the Vulcan without hesitation, covering him as he strode quickly to his captain's side. Once at the altar, he turned, protecting Kirk from those who sought to destroy him. Chekov, who was as remarkable with a phaser as with a teleportation signal, took down most of the remaining accolades single handedly. The doctor was understandably distracted by Jim's condition.

He'd been tortured first, it seemed. Beaten and cut and stabbed, his forearms opened to let the blood flow. Only his face had been spared, presumably to preserve the eyes for which he'd been taken.

"Damn it, Jim," Bones said again, expression washed with pain as he gently stroked the sweat-soaked hair from Kirk's brow. "Someone needs to contact _Enterprise,_" he added softly to Spock, who only lowered his phaser when Chekov finished tying up the last of the unconscious cultists. "There isn't much I can do for him here. I lost most of my supplies while we were searching."

"Mr. Chekov," Spock called. The officer lifted his head, anger plain on his face as he cinched the ropes a litter tighter than might be strictly necessary. "Find a signal and alert the _Enterprise_ to our situation. Dr. McCoy and I will follow shortly with Captain Kirk. We are to be transported to the ship _immediately_. Once that is done, contact local authorities to handle these…people. Be sure they know exactly who it is they allowed to be assaulted on their planet, and make it clear that the Federation and Starfleet will _both _be participating in the trials awaiting this faction of fanatics."

"Yes sir!" Chekov barked, snapping a salute before running from the cave.

"I don't want to move him," Bones admitted when Spock knelt by him. The bandages on Kirk's forearms were already spotted with fresh blood as McCoy fought to stabilize him. "He's in a bad state right now. Who knows what transportation will do."

Spock studied his injured captain for a brief moment before busying himself with removing the shackles at his wrists and ankles. From the bruising and lacerations, Jim had put up a hell of a fight. "We must move him, Doctor. You will need your staff and full use of the sickbay to save him. He _must _be moved."

Bones' mouth pressed into a thin, unhappy line before he nodded once. He helped Spock lift Jim into a careful hold, arranging the damaged limbs just so. As Spock strode quickly for the outside world, Bones trotted at his side, holding Jim's head to keep it as steady as possible, since spinal injuries had not been entirely ruled out. As soon as they broke into sunlight, they caught momentary sight of Chekov, speaking rapidly and angrily into his communicator. The Russian looked at them briefly before transportation activity snatched them back to _Enterprise._

The away team was immediately swarmed by medical staff, all of them communicating with Bones in the sharp, jumbled language known only to doctors and their assistants. Spock surrendered Jim to their manic care, striding to the bridge to brief Captain Kirk's command crew while still covered in the man's blood.

None of them were happy with the report, but Sulu summed it up best: "He isn't allowed to leave the _Enterprise _without a full detail of security officers ever again." He turned back to his station, fingers flying as he began a new branch of research. "I'll see what I can do about having him chipped with some kind of sub-dermal locator."

It was the most logical plan Spock had heard all day.


	4. Act 4

AN: Oh LAWL, I never realized I was suggesting Kirk should be "chipped like a puppy" until you guys pointed it out. I'll be giggling about that for days. Mostly because puppy!Kirk is in keeping with my current Reboot continuum theories and aids in the defense of most of the Liberties Taken during the creation of this and other Star Trek fics.

Anyway! We're approaching the finish line, folks, where we have every intention of tripping with both dignity _and_ panache. More Kirk/Spock interactions! Hurray! And hey, it's the shortest chapter yet. That's some sort of record. …I have a soft spot for the title. Did this ever happen in an actual TOS episode? Because I really feel like I'm channeling the series.

Soon, this note shall be longer than the actual chapter. At that point, I'm pretty sure someone owes me a trophy.

Act 4

In which Nature's Best

Is Slightly Better than the Captain's

When Lieutenant Uhura ran from the woods of an alien planet soaked and alone, Spock had to fight against an illogical impulse to shut his eyes.

"Oh god," Bones moaned, squeezing the bridge of his nose. "What the hell's happened _now_?"

"We're all here," Sulu pointed out stubbornly. "The captain hasn't been allowed to go planet-side without all of us or the whole security team since last time, and he didn't _this _time, so _nothing _happened."

"There was an earthquake," Uhura panted, doubled over with her hands braced on her knees as she fought for breath. "The cliff we were on crumbled, and we fell into a small gorge. Captain Kirk's left leg was completely trapped in the landslide. Several of his bones are probably broken. My communicator was damaged beyond use, and his is stuck in the pocket under the rubble."

"Of course it is," Bones growled.

"We—" Uhura sucked in a deep breath, coughing violently for a moment before regaining control. "The quake damaged a naturally occurring dam upstream, and when the water started to rise, the captain pushed me in. I wanted to stay with him, but the water was rising too quickly and he said _one _of us had to get back to _Enterprise—"_

Spock took the captain's location from Uhura with a quick brush of telepathy, racing for the woods with Bones and Sulu on his heels. Chekov yanked out his communicator, shouting for Scotty and rescue.

By the time they found Kirk, he was chin-deep in swirling whitewater, fighting for each breath. Somehow, he still managed to recognize the arrival of his officers. "Hey, guys!" he called over the roar of the river. "Don't bother coming in, the water's not that great for swimming. It's a little cold."

"Hypothermia," Dr. McCoy diagnosed, squinting at the blue tinge of Jim's lips. "Probably augmented by the shock of a crushed leg. We have to get him out of there _now."_

Spock was already stripping off his uniform shirt.

"Don't you dare, Mr. Spock!" Kirk shouted angrily. "This river might kill you, and the _Enterprise _needs a commanding officer! It isn't _logical!_"

"Will all due respect, Captain," Spock called back mildly, gauging the distance between the bank and Jim, "shut up." He dove into the water, swimming over with all the speed and grace of a deeply concerned Vulcan.

Kirk reached for him, catching both his hands to haul him close. "You're an idiot," he spluttered, turning his head to spit out the water that filled his mouth. "I'm completely stuck, and the water will be over my head soon. Spock, go _back, _the crew needs—"

"The crew needs their _captain," _Spock barked. He wrapped one arm around Kirk's waist to free the other hand. "Mr. Sulu," he shouted, twisting in the water so the men on shore were within his line of sight again. "Kindly throw me a rope so we might anchor Captain Kirk to the bank. It would be most unfortunate if he floated away once freed."

"Spock—"

The Vulcan ignored his captain. Sulu tied his length of rope, brought along for climbing expeditions on the newly discovered world, to a sturdy tree, tossing the other end to Spock, who wound it around Jim's torso with quick efficiency.

The last thing Jim gasped before he became fully immersed was, "Spock, _please—"_

Despite being cut short, Spock knew the rest of the plea would not have been "—get me out of here." It would have been something along the lines of "—it isn't safe. Go back." James Kirk was a singularly annoying man.

So Spock dove, fast and determined, locating the source of Jim's predicament with no difficulty. It took three more dives to shift enough rock to free the captain. By then, Jim was limp and pliant, deadweight in his first officer's arms. Jim was half towed, half dragged back to shore, where Bones immediately laid him out on the ground, tilting his head back to listen for breath.

But of course, there was none, just as there wasn't a heartbeat. "Hail the _Enterprise," _McCoy snapped at Sulu, who was already busy doing just that. Bones started an age-old life-saving technique called CPR, trying to be Jim's heart for him. "Don't you dare, James Kirk," he chanted as he worked. "Don't you dare."

Just when hope seemed futile, Jim spasmed, choking on the water his lungs fought to expel. Bones rolled him onto his side in the recovery position, careful of his badly broken leg, patting his back firmly to encourage the purge. Spock, dripping and cold, sat back on his heels, pondering the rush of pure relief that filled him at the sight of those blue eyes opening weakly.

"New rule," Sulu said shakily as transportation energy gathered around them. "The captain isn't allowed off the _Enterprise, _period."

Kirk choked a laugh, which turned into a violent cough that shook his body and aggravated his leg. He groaned, pressing his pale face into the dirt, and shuddered violently.

"Oh great," Bones snapped. "Illness on top of everything else. That's just _perfect!"_

They were transported back onboard _Enterprise _before anyone could respond, which was probably for the best.


	5. Act 5

AN: So! Act 5. The act in which Kirk proves it isn't so much WHERE he is as much as simply THAT he is. (Chew on that convoluted sentence for a while, I dare ya.) Poor the bridge crew. Yay more Kirk/Spock interaction! Anyone here ever heard of the band Death Cab for Cutie? One of their songs inspired one of my sentences. But I'm not tellin' which one. Ha!

Also, this one is longer than the last couple. Hurray! I'm gonna go back to building bookcases now, so my books can stop being homeless. Ta!

Act 5

In Which the Crew of the _Enterprise_

Can't Catch a Break

" 'It's not even _on _an alien world,' " Dr. McCoy whined in a high, annoying mockery of their host's invitation. " 'So of course Captain Kirk can come! You should _all _come!' Are we all completely mad?" he demanded of Sulu, who grinned at him with an unrepentant shrug.

"I don't know, Doctor. The captain seems to be having a lot of fun, and we _aren't _on-world after all."

"No," the doctor snarled, "we're just on a _pleasure _vessel, an interplanetary _cruise ship, _attending some spoiled rich grandmother's latest who's-who gala of idiots and brats."

"Have you tried the buffet?" Chekov asked, sidling over to join in their conversation with a loaded plate and a huge grin. "It has all the finest cuisine from the major worlds of the Federation! It's delicious, Doctor!"

"And the captain _is _having a good time," Sulu pointed out again, indicating Jim where he twirled a dignitary's daughter across the dance floor, "_without _nearly getting himself—"

"Not another word," Bones snapped with a glare. "You'll _jinks it."_

Sulu put up both hands with a grin, following Chekov back to the buffet. Spock was the only other officer in attendance who seemed to be waiting for the inevitable shoe to drop. Then again, equipped with a thousand degrees of Vulcan non-expressions, he might also just be bored.

Still, Sulu made an excellent point. Jim seemed to be in his element, hobnobbing with the best of them. And where had he learned to dance like that? No song came on, no choreographed number or waltz began, that he didn't seem to know intimately. He switched partners and laughed and chatted, forming an endless string of high-powered alliances for himself and the _Enterprise_ with effortless charm and wit.

Was there nothing Jim wouldn't do for the sake of that ship?

As the night wore on and alcohol mellowed even the most temperamental of guests, Bones began to harbor the secret hope that maybe they would all escape back to their ship whole, intact, and without death-defying stunts.

Which was the exact moment, of course, everything went sideways.

It happened in seconds: A scream, three shots from an antique gun someone had brought as a showpiece and been stupid enough to load, the shrieks of male and female partygoers as they surged away from the source of the commotion. And then, terrible and predictable, Captain Kirk, matter-of-factly unloading the remaining rounds with the perpetrator unconscious at his feet and blood raining from his dress uniform onto the multibillion-credit flooring.

The bridge crew of the _Enterprise _pushed through the fleeing crowd, fighting to be at their captain's side even as he began giving his statement to the ship's security officials. "I guess they'd both had too much to drink," he said in conclusion when his crew finally made it to him. "I doubt he meant for me to jump in the way. In any case, Lord Astrokan should know better than to point any weapon at someone he doesn't intend to injure. Please notify my ship and Starfleet when his sentencing comes up. I'm sure we'll all be very curious to see how your courts work."

"Yes sir," the security guard replied instantly, fumbling through a salute that Jim only halfheartedly returned, expression grim.

"Jim—" Bones began, reaching for the bloodstains on his dark dress uniform.

But Kirk waved him off with a sharp look and a hard smile. "It isn't bad, Dr. McCoy." He turned to their hostess, who was pale and teary with mortified remorse. "Ah, don't cry, milady." He kissed her old hand, offering her the last dashing smile of the evening. "It's barely a scratch. My medical team will have me patched up in no time."

"How can I ever—" She motioned helplessly.

"Save the first dance of the next ball for me," Kirk requested cheekily, startling a laugh out of her. "Get some rest," he suggested. "We'll keep in touch."

"Please do," she agreed, more to McCoy than the captain.

When they beamed back onto the _Enterprise, _the senior medical team was waiting for them. Nurse Chapel strode forward, face pale, reaching for the captain with something like panic in her eyes. "His bio-readings are getting ready to—"

Captain Kirk collapsed, caught by Spock on one side and Chekov on the other. Alarms wailed, red lights flashing with warning, and the transporter room descended into chaos.

"He's crashing, get these clothes off him—"

"Someone get me an injection of adrenaline and four CCs of—"

"Doesn't anyone have a _stretcher—"_

"_We're losing him!"_

"_Somebody get me a fucking compress!"_

"Don't go, don't go," Bones snapped, soaked up to the elbows in Jim's lifeblood. "You stay _with me, _James Kirk!"

Spock pressed his fingers over Jim's psi-points, snatching frantically at his consciousness as it faded, slipping through his fingers like diamond dust. Still he fought, following his captain into the dark. A flicker of concern floated to him, a gentle urge to go back before it was too late.

_I followed you here, _he replied in challenging response. _I will follow you out, or I will not go at all. __**Captain.**_

Grudging irritation swept over him from a mind brilliant with its own potential. _Stubborn pointy-eared bastard._

"I've got a heartbeat! Get him to sickbay, _now, _and take Spock too!"

* * *

"So," Sulu said, pinning a printout onto the wall of Captain Kirk's quarters right where he couldn't help but see it. "This is the list of restricted activities we drew up while you were comatose."

Jim shifted with a faint frown, too tired to argue but too incredulous to let that pass. "You all came up with a _list_ of restricted activities?"

Sulu nodded, studying the list thoughtfully. "It isn't comprehensive, of course, but that's what Item 96 is indented to cover: 'Any and all activities, recreational or exploratory, that have greater than a fifteen-percent chance of resulting in Captain James T. Kirk coming to harm, serious or superficial, are restricted'. Pretty ingenious, don't you think?"

"I think," the captain said dryly, "that it sounds an awful lot like something a green-blooded hobgoblin would write. And I'm just wondering when this turned into a democracy."

"Well," the helmsman pointed out reasonably, "Commander Spock _has _had the conn while you were in surgery and recovery and comatose and everything. Dr. McCoy says it'll be at least another week before you're fit for duty. Commander Spock's had to make some hard decisions in that time, but they were only logical, you see." He patted the list fondly. "Sleep well, Captain, and recover quickly. The _Enterprise _doesn't like anyone else in her chair, and, to be honest, neither do we. Including Commander Spock."

"Out!" Bones demanded, bustling in with the latest battery of medication. "Out, Mr. Sulu, before I send you to the brig!"

Sulu left with a wave and a smile, abandoning Jim to his doctor's irritated mercies.

"Now, Bones," he began reasonably.

"Don't you _now Bones _me, James Kirk!" He shoved the first hypospray into Jim's neck, releasing it with a savage punch that he knew drove Jim crazy.

"Would you please not do that!"

"You nearly _died_ after telling me you were fine!" He drove in the next two hypos with the same ferocity. "Bleeding all over the ship, without a thought for anyone else! Not even _Spock, _who could have died anchoring your mind!"

Jim frowned. "That was real? I thought I was dreaming. I'll have to talk to him about that. He's getting reckless."

"_Damn it, Jim!" _Bones spluttered in fury, all but stabbing Jim with the last hypo. "Go to _sleep!"_

And Jim did, helpless under the pull of heavy medication. The last thing he saw was the list Sulu had pinned to his wall, and the first of nearly a hundred rules designed to keep the captain of the _Enterprise _from getting himself killed.

"Item 1: All parties, balls, extravaganzas, mixers, or other events of a social nature not of Crew planning or Starfleet requirement are strictly forbidden."

Wet blankets, the lot of them.


	6. Act 6

AN: TA-DA. The one time he DIDN'T. Are you excited?

So, I have this habit in other fandoms of being like, "I have another great idea I'll write and post right after this one!" And it's like a curse of some kind, because I inevitably get distracted by some other shiny new fandom, so the story never gets posted. It always happens that way. SO: I am NOT telling you that I have a Super Epic idea I'm playing with that is NOT probably going to be called Atlas and should in NO WAY appear within the next 30 days. It will NOT be set during and post the end of the movie, NO characters will experience growth, and there is NO way I'd develop a deep and spiritual relationship between two officers who shall NOT be mentioned and are NOT sometimes called Jim and Spock.

So there. I didn't say it. It's NOT a promise. (Will someone out there NOT shake my hand on this, so it DOESN'T feel more like an agreement and less like a passing fancy?)

Act 6

In Which Jim Takes Part

In a Deadly Situation

"This is the very last straw!" Bones snarled. "After this, that man is going to be _lashed to his chair for all eternity!"_

Spock wondered about the logic of that statement, but didn't say anything since the doctor seemed willing to do physical harm to anyone who offered him the least provocation. Instead he turned to the head engineer. "How are you progressing, Mr. Scott?"

"I'm giving it all I've got, Mr. Spock," the Scotsman retorted tersely, keeping a steady hand as he attempted to torch his way into the storage bay of the _Enterprise _where Captain Kirk was currently being held captive by escaped renegade mercenaries.

"We have to get in there before they kill him," Sulu murmured, vibrating with the need to rescue his captain.

"You think I don't know that?" Scotty snapped.

"Calm down," Uhura ordered, checking her phaser for the hundredth time. "We need to at least _appear_ to be in control when those doors open, or we'll never be able to negotiate his release."

"You think I don't know that?" McCoy snarled.

"Doctor," Spock said, a single word that forced Bones to settle. McCoy scowled down at his kit instead, making sure every item was exactly where he needed it to be for triage. Minutes later, they broke through the door.

To the sounds of laughter.

"…What the hell?" Bones pushed his way into the holding bay, gaping at the scene that met his eyes.

Kirk was seated, hale and hearty, at a large packing crate that had been turned into an impromptu poker table. The mercenaries, all five of them, sat with him, joking and complaining and accusing him of cheating. Jim's pile of chips, made of small bits of paper and bottle caps and other assorted trash, easily doubled what the other players had collectively. After a last round of dealing, everyone went all in. Cards were shuffled, decisions made, and hands revealed.

"And that's a straight flush," Kirk announced casually, spreading his cards face up over the crate. He slapped the nearest mercenary's shoulder consolingly as the others all groaned. "Good game, boys."

The mercenaries muttered good naturedly, ribbing Jim and each other as they gathered the cards. What appeared to be the leader stretched his hand across the table for a firm shake. "One more round, Jimmy?" His eyes flickered to the doorway where the bridge crew of the _Enterprise _hovered, looking like they meant business, even if they weren't sure what that business was anymore. "For the road?"

"I'll have to pass this time, Jack." Jim grinned back at his officers. "I think I'm gonna be in trouble for a little while. At least games of poker with potential enemies in the storage bay of the _Enterprise _isn't on the DND list."

"DND?"

"_Do Not Do." _He shrugged. "I'm on restriction from death."

Jack laughed, standing with his men. "Well, I suppose that's only fair." He held out his wrists. "Are we gonna do this formally?"

The captain shook his head as he rose. "We'll hold you in the brig, of course, but you won't be locked in." He lifted a quieting hand when every one of his officers began an outraged protest. "We should meet up with your ship within the next few days, and you'll be free to go."

"Fair enough." Jack and his men filed out of the storage bay, following a bewildered Chekov as he led them to the brig.

"It's a long story," Jim said to Spock, including the others in a brief sweep of blue eyes, "and I'm starving. I'll brief Dr. McCoy and Mr. Spock in my quarters over dinner, and they can inform the rest of you later." When refusal began to darken several faces, Jim dropped his smile. "That's an order. Back to your posts."

Once the trio of men were safely in Jim's quarters, food spread before them like a banquet, Jim told his story. The mercenaries were actually fairly honest traders from a nearby planet who had been separated from their ship by a mix-up in a cargo hold, which began a confusing but desperate adventure that had ended upon _Enterprise, _with the panicked capture of the only Starfleet captain in the Federation who actually listened instead of just attempting to kill them.

"But by the time we got things sorted out," Kirk concluded, pouring himself another glass of water, "the bay was already locked down, and we had to wait for you to get in before anything could be done for them. So I promised to get them back to their ship, provided they didn't try anything funny, and we killed the remaining time with some friendly hands of poker."

"Let me get this straight," Bones said calmly. "You've been blown up, kidnapped, nearly offered as a ritual sacrifice to a pagan god, caught in a landslide, drowned, and shot, all during routine low-hazard missions, and the one time you're threatened by _honest-to-god mercenaries, _you walk away without a scratch."

Kirk considered for a moment before grinning widely and lifting his glass to Bones in a salute.

"_Damn it, Jim!"_ McCoy stormed from the room, muttering about vaccinations and three-day tranquilizers and high grade ulcer medication.

"Captain," Spock said when he was gone, waiting for Kirk's attention to swing his way. "You should know that the crew's risk for stress-related health problems increases with each of these…adventures in which you take part."

Jim blinked. "Oh?"

"Exponentially."

"Oh." Kirk ran his hands through his hair, scratching brusquely. "Well, Spock," he admitted, "I'm not sure what I can do about that."

"My best recommendation," the Vulcan informed him intently, leaning forward a little to make sure his point was taken, "would be to give the appearance that you understand your own value in relation to the ship and her crew."

Jim Kirk's too blue eyes lifted to Spock's, filled with the wild calculations that were never too far from the surface. "Mr. Spock," he replied softly, "when have I done otherwise?"

For a moment, Spock could almost see the world as Jim did, an endless parade of choices and options all bent beneath his hand to form a future where the _Enterprise _always flew, always pushed boldly into the unknown, cared for by the best and brightest of every generation. Sometimes that would require Jim to put his own life on the line; sometimes it wouldn't. When it did, it would be up to the crew, the officers, those who gave their loyalty to no one above James Kirk, to make sure their mad and brilliant captain kept the helm.

He would sacrifice anything for them. They could do no less than fight for him in return.

Spock let the barest smile curve his mouth, shutting his eyes as he offered a slight bow.

_Mission accepted, Captain._


End file.
